


Companion Plants

by FrenchTwistResistance



Series: I’ve Always Been Crazy But It’s Kept Me from Going Insane [10]
Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, I just want caos to be a sitcom where hot middle-aged ladies kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:12:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22812112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchTwistResistance/pseuds/FrenchTwistResistance
Summary: Companion plants can provide pollination resources or natural protection against pests.Companion plants can also be good disguises in the right circumstances.
Relationships: Hilda Spellman/Mary Wardwell | Madam Satan | Lilith
Series: I’ve Always Been Crazy But It’s Kept Me from Going Insane [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597594
Comments: 8
Kudos: 8





	Companion Plants

“How many tomato plants can you spare?” It’s a brisk, brusque husk of a voice. Not as unctuous as usual.

Hilda’s sitting on the edge of the porcelain clawfoot bathtub. It’s around 7 am on a Sunday morning, and she’s just finished brushing her teeth. Zelda has drowsily brought her the cordless phone and is currently crawling back into bed. 

At least they don’t have to do the fake accent thing anymore now that everyone knows they’re… doing whatever they’re doing. 

Mary’s not exactly a girlfriend so much as an open secret. Regardless, much less fuss and subterfuge. It’s just Mary just calling now.

“I am famously jealous over my tomatoes,” Hilda says. Mary grunts, says,

“Obviously. But I’m in a little bit of a bind. And you owe me.”

“I owe you? I don’t see how you figure that,” Hilda says.

“You don’t even realize how much of a minx you are,” Mary says. She says it lazily and seductively, and if it weren’t so early in the morning perhaps Hilda would be more apt to flirt back. But as it stands she’s still a little bleary and disinterested. She says,

“What are you talking about, Wardwell?”

“I hated that Zumba class even more than you did.” Hilda's about to protest that she’s already made up for that by agreeing to go roller skating but doesn’t get the chance as Mary cuts back in quickly, “But listen. What I’ve been doing out here is not as legal as I’d originally thought, and a crop glamour only works when you’re within a mile of said crop. Not a feasible long-term solution for a woman with a full-time job in town. So. I need quite a lot of tomatoes. Quick, fast, and in a hurry.”

Hilda’s processing but slowly. This is something to do with Mary’s weed side hustle. As much as she doesn’t want to get involved, she says,

“I can bring you one and do a redoublification spell. That is if whoever you’re trying to fool is pretty unsophisticated.”

“Perfect,” Mary says.

Hilda’s dressing silently with just the light seeping in from where she’s barely opened the window sash. Zelda says with a croaky voice around her duvet,

“Didn’t I tell you she was trouble?”

“Oh go back to sleep and be right later, Zelds.”

xxx

By the time Hilda’s pulling into Mary’s drive, Mary has already plucked ninety percent of the cannabis she’s been growing from the earth. There are three tidy piles: ready, too green, absolute trash.

Mary looks over her shoulder. Her face is smeared with dirt, and her eyes are glassy and feverish but oddly focused and penetrating.

She throws her most recent stalk into the trash pile and then strides over to Hilda’s door, vibrating with fatigue.

“Hell and a half, love. How long have you been at it?” Hilda says.

“Never went to bed last night,” Mary says. “Can’t have the cops looking at me just now.”

Hilda wants to ask but knows she won’t get a real answer. She says,

“Let’s get to getting, then, I guess.”

Mary claws at the ground with her bare hands, and Hilda plants the tomato. 

Hilda starts chanting. Mary rips up the remaining four plants and then joins her, and then they’re holding hands and chanting together.

Sprouts.

Sprouts sprouting, a small feeble green thing reaching up and snaking toward the surface.

A yard away, ten feet away, four inches away, an acre away. Again and again. Quick, fast, and in a hurry. Sprouts stretching and unfurling supernaturally. Time-lapse photography but real actual leaves and buds and life.

Each rent-earth space that had previously housed marijuana now occupied by a lush tomato plant, straining for its share of sun.

Chanting—Latin, Greek, Hebrew. Chanting—iambic pentameter, free verse, blank verse. Chanting—English rhyming couplets.

The whole section completely renovated. Acreage put to use. Legally. But slap-dash clones on a close inspection.

Hilda falls to the ground, knocked over by the backlash of her own magic over-exerting itself. The witch version of the anaerobic respiration in muscle cells.

Mary’s standing above her, eyes still a little wild but also gentle and searching now.

“You’re a marvel, Hilda Spellman,” Mary says.

They stare at each other in the full noon sunlight.

In this iridescent halo, Mary’s a person Hilda could fall in love with. But it’s a trick of the light, surely—a beautiful mirage. Reflections and refractions playing with perceptions and optic nerves and whatever species of butterfly that might survive in the acidic environment of a human stomach.

Mary takes Hilda’s hands and pulls her up onto her feet, says once Hilda is standing,

“But I’m still a little annoyed with you, if I’m being completely candid.” 

Mary starts walking toward the house. Hilda brushes herself off and follows.

“Oh Zumba wasn’t that bad. What in heaven are you on about?” Hilda says.

Mary stops walking abruptly. Hilda doesn’t anticipate this halt, runs right into Mary’s backside. They bounce off each other, and Mary recovers first, says:

“It’s my own fault, and I’m probably more annoyed with myself than I am with you, but it’s still annoying. In general.”

“I am just so confused. You’ve got to give me a break on this and just tell me what you mean,” Hilda says.

They’re inches away from each other, standing in their respective defensive stances a few feet from Mary’s back porch.

“You fucked Kingston,” Mary sighs. “I encouraged you to and then reneged. And you took that admittedly mealy-mouthed wavering for license, and you did it. She’s a consummate lady, but she insinuates plenty.”

Mary has flopped onto one of her deck chairs and is staring at Hilda, challenging her but barely, resigned and exhausted but still so obviously convinced she’s right.

Hilda’s thinking about what all Mary’s said to her and in what ways. She ascends the two wooden steps of the deck, stands directly in front of Mary. If the wind blows hard enough, Hilda might make knee-to-knee contact accidentally. She’s got her hands on her hips, says authoritatively,

“You must be working from some bad intel. Number one… that… did not happen. Number two she would never in a million years suggest it did. She is so polite she probably apologizes to anthills she trips over for arriving at their home without a gift. Number three even if we had… been intimate… you'd be the last person she would want catching wind of it. You’re her boss, and furthermore she’s seen the way you look at me.” Mary opens her mouth, but Hilda placates a little, “She might have the best arms in town, but you have the second best, and she knows that as well as everyone else does.” Mary preens but then catches herself and huffs and concedes:

“Fine. I happened to drive by her house a few days ago. She and you on her couch. Can’t believe she didn’t have the blinds completely closed!”

Hilda laughs. Miss Kingston’s couch is at the back of the house, which butts up to a little wooded area, so there’d have been no reason to have the blinds closed unless she had known Mary Wardwell would be playing jealous Nancy Drew peeping tom. She says,

“She must just like full-figured blondes. Because it certainly wasn’t me on that couch a few days ago.” Their date had been at least two weeks ago, and they’d never gotten past the dining room.

Mary raises an eyebrow. She seems suspicious. Hilda taps a finger against Mary’s bottom lip and then carefully lowers herself onto Mary’s lap, continues, 

“You know I don’t eat meat, but I do love a good cliche: Why would I want to go out for a burger when I have steak at home?” Mary smiles and hums,

“That’s been a question I’ve been asking myself a lot lately and one of the most annoying things about the whole situation.” Hilda laughs again.

“You are so vain I can’t even stand you.” Mary shrugs and kisses her. 

It’s a slow, sensual, tired kiss, and Hilda can feel how run down she is. Hilda’s stroking the inside of Mary’s forearm, light tickling soothing touches and says, 

“Well. Do you think your clients will like your new tomatoes as well as they liked your old reefer?”

“Hard to say. I’m just glad none of them know my real name or where I live. Can’t run me out of town so easily that way when I tell them the hash is gone.”

“Won’t have to deal with it for a little while, at least.” Hilda’s still stroking an arm, and Mary’s eyes are heavy lidded.

“At least there’s that,” Mary says. And then she perks up a bit, “Hellfire, I’ve got to get those piles into the shed yet.” Mary is now shifting in her seat in preparation to get up, but Hilda plants herself more firmly against her, says,

“How about you let me do that and you go to bed?”

Mary relaxes and blinks:

“You’d do that for me?”

“It’s not a big deal. My magic’s not spent. A couple of flicks of the wrist. Might even make us some brownies for later, if you catch my drift.”

“Hmm. Trying a little too hard to make up for the Zumba and Kingston fiascos, I think,” Mary says. Hilda rolls her eyes, says,

“Fiascos of your own making.”

“I might admit to having a small part in the Kingston thing, but no one twisted your arm to drink that absinthe.”

“True. But can we call it square and never talk about either again?”

“Depends on how good those brownies turn out to be.”

“Deal,” Hilda says. She stretches, yawns, stands. “I might crawl into bed with you for a few minutes.”

“Not in those dirty tomato clothes you won’t.” Mary stands and opens the sliding glass door.

“Wasn’t planning on any clothes at all, pet.”

“I’m about to drop dead from weariness, and that’s what you say to me? I haven’t named you as the beneficiary of my life insurance policy yet, so I don’t know why you’re trying to kill me.” Hilda gives her a light tap on the butt, shoos her inside, says,

“You’ll be asleep as soon as you fall into bed, and it’ll take me a few minutes to clean up your mess. Now get.”

“Bossy.”

“Bossy and impatient. My best qualities, according to you.” Hilda slides the door shut between them, but she can hear the muted,

“You’ve also got really nice tits.”

Hilda blushes but cherishes the sentiment as she goes about her business.

She’s drinking a cup of tea on the deck as she waits for the brownies to finish baking and wondering why she feels so comfortable and right in this weird woman’s space. The timer dings, and she shakes herself out of her thoughts.

She’s standing over Mary’s bed, about to pull back the covers, and she can just see Mary’s gorgeous collarbones, her smooth neck peeking out above the quilt—it’s a quilt Hilda recognizes from having made it at Quilting and Cognac. It had sold at a blind auction last month for several times the suggested price. Hilda doesn’t let herself think about the implications of that. She simply slips in silently, and Mary turns instinctively, presses her nude body back against Hilda’s nude body.

And they sleep together, a tight set of spoons.


End file.
